Tag Archives: self portrait

Ink Me!

quill-and-ink

This page defies my aching pen, smears the blotted stain I rend from out its holy genie’s lamp, cold and coughing, moist and damp… yet here between each stolen pause, I dance, I sing, I gestate cause to linger long in separation, bound to morsel’s reparation caught between elixir’s truth… sipped again, glazed in proof…. Aha!

“Page me!” yet again I yell, toward this staggered nib and well, “Page me past this floundered try that calls tomorrow’s post I cry!”

Turning toward another blank white sheet of hope, in blue lined rank, I stagger from this drunken poise to still the fire, quell the noise that drifts in hints of winter’s wind around the quill and errant pen…

“Ink me, please kind muse of love! Ink my hand, my soiled dove that draws a drunken prayer poor, draws past lust and sullen whores! Ink me!!!!”

Alas the cloud of rum and lust have rendered useless this book and stuff, that tho’ I carry where e’er I’m bound, tonight just spirit can be found, and so I turn to cork and crook, stay the pen, close the book and drink until all’s taken back, the words, the rhyme, the poem in slack… drink me!

Prompt by dVerse poets pub https://dversepoets.com/.
Our host, Lillian, asked that we write a poem and “verbify”. Basically creating a verb out of a noun, or some other element of grammar. I managed to get a little carried away.
Enjoy!

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Filed under Perspective, Poetry, Universal Soul

Autumnal Equinox (a dream)

Disappearing in a haze of dusk, evening barters with a lingered musk of autumn’s creeping, burgeoned hope, early setting sun just lopes effortless toward the horizon.

Quiet calm throughout these woods, grants a peace to what I would, or should endeavor for my rest, yawning pleasures bring the best of what such dreams might lean on.

Steady turning, shadows fade, to echoed angels in the shade where once my summer’s heat escaped, to feel the cooling taste of grapes, in tiny luscious nectars.

Now just stretching leaves and vines, along the fence, defending signs that summer’s never out of reach, but autumn’s hold on summer breached the failing season’s vector.

My eyes grow heavy, my body, rest, and to the day I give my best to hold on just an hour more, but calmly find I’m nodding off in silent sweeps of evening’s thought that bends my head toward the floor.

So in peaceful sacrifice, surrender comes to be my wife and guide me to an early bed, where calmly call the cricket’s stead, to sleep and dream once more.

Autumn comes in subtle shades where summer’s scent is gently played to perfumes of a sweeter musk, time and aging, so I trust, will call me home to sleep.

That there upon my wakening, cooling sun and shape of things that beckon kind a hint of fall, bring to me another call of years still yet to keep.

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Autumn Hint

Moments dance in brittle waves, sparks between the autumn leaves, staining soft the shadowed hints of summer’s slow goodbye.

Dusk defines this edge in time, a poignant blush against the thread of season’s change, such sad lament, soft rose in deeper shadow hides.

Focus fades, day succumbs, autumn’s early eve draws cool, wraps a hint between the stars, appearing one or two.

Pull the night shade lastly, here, strain thine eyes to find the lines, hidden midst the whispered hush, summer’s secret stretched o’er time.

Clinging to the eloquent, flagging in the memory, drifting in the season spent, dreaming toward the one to be.

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The Physics of Aging

It calls,
I refuse,
but the rest of me follows…
into the grey with pock marked skin,
wrinkles defining a last bastion of defiance.

I win so many,
those little battles…
losing weight,
gaining strength,
outwitting the youngers,

but then it calls me…
pulls me along a path that I can neither define, nor resist…
strange aches at dawn,
gasps of pain that I’ve never felt there before…
sits my healthy ass down with a plop,
gives me a cane to rise again,
jeers at me…

knowledge overcomes the fear;
studious adaptations,
modified living,
physical therapy…
I win again.

It’s waiting for my confidence to build,
for my testosterone driven libido to stand just a bit too proudly…
then it will call me.

I know this game,
now.

Newton had it right…
“a body in motion remains in motion
until it is acted upon by an external force”.

Aging…

the physics of it entertain,
yet annoy,
try my patience and courage,
shake my confidence
yet stir iron will from my soul.

I heard someone say once,
“aging isn’t for the faint of heart”,
or maybe it was something like,
“only the courageous grow old”…
either way, they’re both right.

It calls,
I‘m forced to listen,
forced to learn…

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The Arch

mesa arch david richter

Between the gilded scents of morn, standing open, beckoning,
an archway calling heaven’s song, reaching for my soul.
Spun in precious mountain light, thinnest air in reckoning,
stretching white the shadows long, waiting for my toll.

I know no sparkled band of path that led me to this place and time,
I know the keeper, owner, not, yet dare, I seek to meld sublime
into the space held just beyond, heart and soul in conflict,
upon the points of life and death, one free, one earthly convict.

Above the azure honey drips, wet and washed, brush marks lain,
a hint of flame arising slow, rushing through this quiet song.
Flaxen hints in burlap’s hatch, flagging dawning, midnight’s stain,
burgeoned lust in afterglow, blushing in sweet sunbeams, long.

It calls to me, I know, yet know not where I wander,
free to pull, above, below, tear my present self asunder,
break this living’s hesitation, rend a soul from deeper hues…
It calls me, beckons, pleads me home, ‘til quietly, I float right through.

Image by David Richter – Mesa Arch – http://www.davidrichterphotography.com

Posted for dVerse ~ Poets Pub 10-May
Lillian prompted us to consider doors; the suspense of what lies on the other side; the transition of passage; the simplicity and beauty of the doorways of our world.
You can find many great poets at dVerse.  I wholeheartedly recommend you take a look.
https://dversepoets.com/

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Filed under Dreams, Mountains, Nature, Perspective, Universal Soul

The Rhyme

Bend the will of rhyme to time, define one single speck of peace, grant a solace ‘twixt the words upon the ink’s sweet black release. Drift my mind to never worlds, where cursive loops in scrawling bleed, that there I find a fascination in all these crazy scenes of greed. Or is it need, that drives it there, takes control, extends my hair and boils a madman’s single eye that stares upon the page with fire, in ire burgeoned from a peace where just one moment did release?

But here in diving deep to find the moment’s pause, the sacred rhyme, here in swimming longer through the glancing blows of what is true, finding meter’s just a lie, so left to face what surely dies when now the freedom’s passed! The clock says “go!” and I alas, must follow or be ruined sure, so back to work in fires impure, back to head and shovel down, sweat and blood enough to drown even the best of all our strength…

But now, the language comes to me, the fired rhyme and rhythm be, each word is cast upon my mind, I stand among the dregs to find that they are listening quite content, their shovels gone, their hurry spent. They listen to each lengthened phrase, their gasps crescendo in honest praise, they feel the power granted here and when I’m through, they stand and cheer!

In audience of the pen and ink, ‘tis that which grows within, I think, that matters most, yet spoken hence without the written plan’s suspense, that every word to them beholding is carried true throughout the folding hands of space and time, the shovel, sweat, the pain and rhyme… all ‘tis mine!

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The Waiting Room and the Aftermath

Time compressed a lifetime to a single moment, drawn slender, nearly warping the second hand, yet each escaping stroke pounded heavy, a muted hammer against the polished anvil of time’s progression.

The waiting was over. Wringing hands and silent prayers were done.

You entered, unwelcomely wanted, through an angel’s open door. It was June. Iowa June.

The air clung thick. Soundless single syllables just heard beyond the pounding blood of my ears, beneath my mother’s panicked hopeful breathing, against the ironic tapping of your white Florsheim shoes, covered in blood.

Our suspended sanctuary broken with your nod, and respectful question. Yet our vigil held a moment longer, well over the precipice. “I’m sorry,” you said, “he didn’t survive.” All point of reference, gone. Asking, “What!?” You repeated yourself scratching at an explanation. My mother’s orchestral voice raised in tension, sweet timbre of violin strings, disbelieving, could only sing, “Oh no! Oh no! I will never hold his hand again! Oh my God! Oh no!”

To a pinhole view the world resolved. In haunting hush my brother’s sweet tears were all I heard to comfort a life’s long loss. The room devoured, swallowing breath in its labored breathing, Jonah in the whale. Details smeared in fresco, glossy, distorted. Every step, every word relaxed along the corridor, penetrating, piercing my battled grasp to cling on. You there, browning blood rooted in the piped white stitching. Your words, soundless.

Disdain revolved my iron neck, begging to turn away, only to see her there, slanting through hell’s door; a pig in squalor, a nurse in white, makeup of a whore. Piercing the fleeting glimpse of any dream with, “You need to gather the belongings. Come with me.”

Fleeing you, this trap, I followed her. Fat, short, squat legs pounding busy hallway tiles; purpose of a jack hammer. Spinning, burning in overload through hospital denizens, features stretched, some kind, some lost, some loud… An eon’s flooded blur slammed prostrate to clinical white doors. Another trap to open.

“It’s all in here”, she said, thrusting upon me the brown frayed grocery bag, clasped in sparkles of Swingline precision, his name in black, still wafting a Sharpied rush to the end. Would it ever end?

Heavy armed, I slowly turned to face an eternity lulled to desperate lows, stretching it’s Einstein’d moments illusively, forever before me, pressing mass upon mass, gravity surreally bending the tears to flood.
In memory of the waiting room and the aftermath, the day my father died in surgery, June 17, 1985.
Written for d’Verse Poets Pub – http://dversepoets.com/

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Filed under Memory, Perspective, Poetry